Thirty miles west of the city,
Deep and remote are the woods and hills.
Peaks link like a chain of rings,
A narrow path winds along the cliff.
Rich soil bears heavy crops,
Few dwell in this secluded place.
Old cassia trees stand tall and graceful,
Lofty pines soar with noble pride.
Hidden dew weeps on streamside moss,
Clear breeze sways the emerald bamboos.
Morning brings a floating freshness,
Light mist hangs upon the treetops.
Warm sun, sky clear and bright,
A pheasant calls with echoing cry.
Stone gully gargles cold spring water,
Gurgling down into the deep pool.
Towering twin stone gates,
Often scorched by woodcutters' fires.
The temple gleams with upturned eaves,
Walls encircle like a fortress.
Sweeping the floor, I light fine incense,
Deep and serene are the chamber windows.
Alas, I, a rugged man,
Troubled by lifelong worries.
Loving antiquity, addicted to scrolls,
My eccentric nature delights in fish and birds.
Whenever I meet fine hills and streams,
My ears listen, my eyes grow bright.
Especially when with worthy friends I roam,
Our spirits soar above the clouds.
Gazing afar with eager eyes,
Facing peril, quiet worries stir.
Risky rhymes vie in chanting ailments,
Strange words craft perilous ends.
A whale bellows in the long corridor,
Monks' windows dawn, lost in twilight.
Cooking millet, preparing wheat dishes,
Earth mushrooms mixed with knotweed and smartweed.
Someday when you return,
Cut wood, clear vines and creepers.
Build a house on the sunny side of the mountain,
High and bright, far from narrow dampness.
Yet I fear attachment to your grace,
Amidst palace fireworks' swirl.